Cleanse
by Dr Spleenmeister
Summary: Season 1 tie in. After experiencing Isaac's ability and foretelling his own fate, Sylar sets about cleansing himself of his evil.


The straight blade glides smoothly through the creamy lather that hides the lower part of his face. As the fresh, clean skin of his jaw and cheeks is revealed he feels the pressure in his chest ease a little, each stroke of the razor edge slicing away at the knot between his ribs that has wound tighter and tighter since painting his city wide caedere.

He will die explosively, taking half the city with him.

The smooth, fluid motions of his hands stutters. He speeds up, becoming a shade from frantic as something in him screams to be cleansed by any means possible. He nicks himself with a hiss and watches in dismay as small droplets of blood drip into the sink, colouring the water a weak, diluted crimson. Would he feel anything at the final moment? Would he bleed? Would there be enough of him left to bleed? Finishing the job quickly and without meeting his own shadowed gaze in the mirror, he cleans the remains of the stubble from his face.

Next is the thick, black hair, slicked down into the horrific side parting he had worn religiously from the age of five up to about three months ago. The tainted innocence of Gabriel Grey slowly emerges from the malevolent shadow of Sylar and as he shrugs into his old, faded corduroy jacket the image is complete.

_Ba-Dump_.

His head snaps around. He is not alone.

He may look like Gabriel Grey and deep down he still has his moments, but he _is_ Sylar, nothing short of his own death could change that now. His eyes narrow into deadly hazel slits as he scans the studio, the still cooling corpse of Isaac Mandes laying prostrate at the edge of his vision. His gaze comes to rest on the painting of the exploding man and a small twitch of his lips indicate his success.

"I can hear you..."

The heartbeats throbbing in his ears trip over one another and speed up. Something deep inside him roils happily at the knowledge that the owners of said heartbeats are terrified of him. He approaches the painting at a slow prowl, the quiet, ever-present tick-tock of life around him sounding louder and louder in his mind as he pads closer to the intruders.

A flick of his fingers sends the painting hurtling across the room. He watches it go, impressed as always by his own abilities, but when he turns back to his uninvited guests they are gone. He glances quickly around but his hyper sensitive ears tell him before his eyes verify the fact, that the people are no longer in the studio.

He smirks fiendishly at the realisation that there is no way they could have fled on foot; clearly there is another power almost within his grasp, he simply has to keep his ear alert for the two heart rhythms he now has locked in his formidable memory. Turning to the table where a simple, white box is waiting for him, his face falls and his heart sinks. Once again, the intoxication that is Sylar's superego had kicked in, thirsty for more power and had distracted him from his purpose; he was supposed to be on a quest for forgiveness tonight, not more destruction.

Running a shaking hand gently over his smoothly slicked hair, he swallows and takes up the box, cradling it in the crook of his arm like a treasured, delicate thing.

Walking solemnly down the busy street, his six foot plus frame putting him a good half head above everyone else, Gabriel Grey was lost in introspection. He was running on instinct, the analytical part of him knew as much, the fear of what he was going to do driving him home, to mommy, to sanctuary. Try as he might he could not fight the cowardly urge, it seized him as soon as he had awoken from the painting trance to set eyes on his own kamikaze destruction.

Arriving at his mother's home half an hour after dusk, he knocks gently on the thin wooden door. It immediately jolts open, juddering against the security chain keeping the world at bay, and the cautious eyes of his mother peer out into the dim corridor. The door slams shut and Gabriel sucks in a breath, terrified for a fraction of a second that she is not going to let him in, that she has somehow learned of his terrible destiny. His fear is short lived however as the door flies open and the slight, middle aged woman all but knocks him off his feet as she barrels into him for a frantic hug. He sighs heavily, the relieved exhalation stirring the hair at the top of her head as he melts into the embrace; everything will be okay, his mommy will make it all okay.

Stepping into the time warp that is his old home Gabriel feels the queerest sense of overwhelming nostalgia and Sylar falls silent in his head. This is Gabriel Grey's domain, Sylar has no place here; if he is to find redemption for the both of them he has to do it alone. Handing over the huge snow globe that had been hiding in the box, he smiles as his mother's eyes light up and chase away the dark, dangerous shadows lurking in the corners of his soul. Watching as she arranges her collection to make space for the monster he has brought her, his eye strays to the ancient cuckoo clock gathering dust on the wall.

His father's clock.

He comments on the fact that it has stopped. She calls it junk and something in him stirs angrily in response; she just doesn't understand how things work like he does, like his father did.

Gently taking the timepiece down from its hanging, he places it on his father's old workbench and takes up the eye loupes left there, placing them on his own face. Opening up the clock to expose its innards, he dimly registers her talking to him but he doesn't respond; the Watchmaker has taken over now. Almost his entire conscious attention is riveted to the intricacies of the lifeless being in front of him. Reaching for his father's delicate tools, he sets about making it work.

Sylar makes things work.

He blinks, distracted for a second as the deadly, reassuring whisper sounds in his mind, mingled with the tick-tock of the revived clock. Sylar _does_ make things work, he takes imperfect abilities from imperfect people and fixes them, making them work the way they were intended to. He had not yet taken a power that was not offered to him willingly - with the exception of the butch mechanic. He was no thief, he was a repairman. It was just an unfortunate side effect that in order for an ability to be perfected it had to be removed from the vessel that was tainting it.

It was all quite logical.

Why didn't anyone understand except him?

"I was thinking I might stay for a while." The conversation has come back around to the reason why he has come here this evening. Maybe if he can reject the path he has been following he can prevent the vision of mass destruction from coming true. Maybe if he stops being Sylar he can be saved.


End file.
